


trial by fire

by spidye



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-06-03 13:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidye/pseuds/spidye
Summary: Heaven's punishment for Aziraphale's meddling is much more severe than a simple execution.





	trial by fire

**Author's Note:**

> not sure when this will be updated but hopefully soon! (: my twitter is @tarongerton

There’s one thing Crowley resents about Aziraphale right now, and boy, is it one _hell_ of a resentment. Not the subtle-irritation, won’t-look-at-him-for-a-while, simmering kind of resentment— no, it’s a capital-R Resentment, the full blown shouting-fit kind, sitting at a medium-high boil in Crowley’s chest, _this_ close to spilling over into what Aziraphale would definitely call a temper tantrum. 

Which means that the gag in his mouth is probably a good thing. He _had_ been spitting profanity and an number of obsolete and obscene angel-repelling spells before. “It’s never going to work, you piece of shit,” he’d said, “you bastard, you _son of a_ — Take your nasty hands off me! It’s not going to work; he’ll know. He won’t come. He’s too smart for—” It had been cut off by the gag, which was shoved so far back in his mouth that he felt his body retch a little in an attempt to vomit. A _gag_ indeed. The gag was followed by ice-cold celestial ropes cinching his arms behind his back, and those ropes followed by a collar of silver around his neck.

That fuss, of course, was before Crowley started getting _actually_ upset. Not the burning-cold heavenly restraints on his arms and wrists, nor the angel’s boot on his spine made him actually angry — his fight was full of the resigned fury of an animal with its leg in a trap. It had been expected. He knew they weren’t just going to let him get away with it, and if there was anyone who would receive punishment for it, it’d be him. Even the Lord Satan had said so. It wouldn’t be Aziraphale. Aziraphale was perfect. 

His angel could get away with it. He could easily spin it into a heartbreak and a betrayal, could say that Crowley had been manipulating him and using him this whole time— that if only Heaven had Checked In on him more often or given him better Guidance, he never would have fallen to Crowley’s dastardly wiles since the very start. He’d be alright if he just kept to his own business and let them dispose of Crowley as they pleased. Then everything would be alright. He’d have his books and his crêpes and he’d be alright, forever.

Which is exactly why Aziraphale’s chipper “Hello!” over the phone is what throws Crowley into a thrashing, squirming fit of anger. Crowley’s on his stomach, arms firmly lashed to his back, with Gabriel straddling him, one foot planted on Crowley’s back to keep him tummy-down and immobile despite the attempt to get free. It’s awkward and painful, trying to look up, so he keeps his eyes on the ground. He knows it’s Uriel standing over _Crowley’s_ desk, using _Crowley’s_ phone, calling _Crowley’s_ angel— oh, _that_ turns the boil to high. 

Uriel doesn’t answer right away; just breathes into the mouthpiece. Aziraphale’s voice, through the receptor, turns quizzical. “...Hello? Is everything quite alright?” 

_No,_ Crowley wants to snap at him, _I mean, yes. Hang up the phone, Aziraphale. For hell’s sake, just hang up._ He can only grunt through the gag.

Gabriel uses the moment to crouch by Crowley, replacing his foot with his knee. His hand slides under Crowley’s jaw and forces his head up towards Uriel. 

“Watch this, _snake_ ,” Gabriel whispers. “The fruits of your labor. You did this to him.”

Crowley, already starting to puzzle it out, twists and squirms under Gabriel’s steel grip, trying to wrench his head free. The ropes tighten painfully on his wrists, and Gabriel pulls his head up higher, threatening to cut off his air supply. A huff of pained air. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and when he blinks them open, Uriel is smiling coyly at his struggling, cradling the phone.

“Aziraphale,” Uriel says, a perfect imitation of Crowley— husky and low, strained. “Something happened. I— I need your help.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says. His tone grows urgent. “What? What do you mean— what’s happened? Are you hurt?” 

Gabriel has to grip a fistful of Crowley’s hair and smack it into the floor to dull down Crowley’s gagged yelling and jerking about beneath his knee. 

“Yes,” Uriel says, still in Crowley’s voice. “It was the demons.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Aziraphale exhales, “oh, no, just— hold on, can you hold on? I’ll be there in just a moment—” 

Crowley gives a garbling yell of what, if not for the gag, would have been either _No, angel!_ or _You idiot,_ neither of which come out at all right. He sucks in a breath and opens his throat up for a full-body, gagged (but audible) scream. Gabriel slaps a hand over his mouth and the sound falls miraculously flat against his palm.

“Please hurry,” Not-Crowley Actually-Uriel says, pathetically desperate. They cover the mouthpiece to giggle at Gabriel, before continuing with a weaker voice. “I— I’m scared. I need you. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

And here’s the Resentment coming in. Aziraphale, for all his cleverness, is still _incredibly_ naive. 

“No, you _are_ ,” demands Aziraphale. Crowley can picture him on the other end, white-knuckling his phone, brows pinched together and eyes wide with that fearful look he does. “I promise you that you’ll be alright. I won’t let anything more happen to you. I’m coming, Crowley.”

It should be so easy for Aziraphale to realize it — to pick up on all the warning signs and keep his nose in his books, to ignore the situation like they had _agreed_ that they would do until their respective verdicts had been passed. Crowley gnaws on the gag with his teeth, getting angrier by the second. _Fucking idiot. Buffoon. Imbecile—_

“I just wanted to tell you,” Uriel continues. “Before I— before I’m gone, I wanted to tell you in person, but I— I guess this will have to do-”

Crowley lunges when he sees the words _I love you_ on the tip of Uriel’s tongue. He doesn’t make it far at all, just a few inches forward, and Gabriel shoves him back into the ground again. His left hand gives such a harsh pull on the ropes that they cut into Crowley’s skin, drawing a little yelp from him. He doesn’t stop, though, trying to get to Uriel before they can say _that_ and ruin absolutely everything, it’s not theirs to say, it’s _his_ to say and he _was_ going to say it in a few centuries and they shouldn’t get to ruin it like this, it’s manipulation and it’s wrong. 

His struggling gets him nowhere. Uriel begins, “I lo—”

“No!” Aziraphale snaps, suddenly authoritative. “I don’t want to hear it. Stop it, stop — delaying me. I’m _coming_ now and you must shut up and let me. Stay alive until I’m there, and that,” he pauses, as if searching for the words, “that is _not_ a question, it is a command! Do you hear me, Crowley? I command you to stay alive!” 

Aziraphale hangs up.

Silence sits heavy in the air for a moment, broken only by the sound of Crowley’s strained breathing. Uriel gently places the phone back in its cradle. 

“Wow,” Gabriel says, face splitting into a wide grin. “I mean, _wow_ , what a show, huh? Hook, line, and sinker. That was _riveting_. I gotta be honest with you, Uriel, not even being biased here, you make a better Crowley than he does. Huh, Crowley? Wasn’t that good?” 

He pats Crowley’s cheek — more like slaps it — and Crowley jerks his head away. Gabriel’s hand then shifts to flatten in the middle of Crowley’s back. Under his fingertips and beneath the ribs, Crowley’s heart is jackhammering in his chest. 

“Oh,” Gabriel says, almost giddy, “oh, ohoho. Are you _scared_ , Crowley?” With the goggles displaced, the emotions in Crowley’s eyes are visible. He turns his head away, but Gabriel tracks the movement himself, ducking his head to meet the demon’s eyes. “You know it’s your fault. Don’t you? _This_ is why angels and demons don’t socialize. If you’d just done your job and stayed away from him, this wouldn’t be happening.”

“Not that you care,” Uriel says. “We all know you’re not capable of it. You just like the attention.” 

Some part of Crowley hopes against all hope that Aziraphale was bluffing— that he won’t show. That he figured it out and that he’ll leave Crowley to Gabriel and Uriel’s imaginations and he’ll _stay safe_. And, for no more than thirty seconds, he gets to let that hope build, working on calming his heart rate and willing the angel to _stay away._

Gabriel hefts him off the floor. “Up you go,” he grunts, carelessly dumping Crowley’s bound body into his desk chair. Crowley makes only a little growl of protest, kicking at him a few times without much result. Gabriel holds Crowley down by the shoulders while Uriel moves in close enough to hover over him contemplatively, as if looking for the right spot to place an acupuncture needle.

Uriel touches their index finger to Crowley’s heart.

The illusion spreads over his skin, feeling thick and hot, like a spill of oil over the sea. Crowley can see his form change to Uriel’s will— still himself, but his arms aren’t bound, and before his eyes, his flesh opens itself into a gash in his chest. He can’t feel it, but the horror of seeing a wound, however fake it make be, start to weep blood that _should_ feel sticky and hot but instead feels like nothing, is enough to make his chest start to rise and fall rapidly. He pulls at the now-invisible restraints behind his back, watching the sensationless blood pour down his torso and drip to the floor. 

Gabriel says, “It’s just too easy,” and with two fingers, pushes Crowley from the chair.

Gravity works triple on him, hauling him to the floor in a pile of limbs, half-tied and twisted onto his stomach again. Uriel steps free of the path of the imaginary blood that oozes from the imaginary wound and giggles when Crowley gags a curse at them. When Crowley tries to push himself up, he finds that his limbs are stone — he can’t move, even with every ounce of effort he puts into forcing his head off the cold concrete. That unreal blood pools around him in a horrible red puddle that laps against his face without a trace of actually being there. 

From the corner of his vision, Crowley can see the two angels take their places on either side of the doorway. He himself is crumpled in plain view, blood oozing visibly, his body half-curled into a loosely fetal position. There’s a metallic _shhk-klik_ — the barrel of Gabriel’s gun glints in the low light. It’s a logical precaution in the case that a quick discorporation is necessary or there’s human interference. Crowley can’t help but feel that it is, also, a bit more personal than a simple miraculous dissolvement. 

_He won’t come,_ Crowley repeats to himself, a mantra, scrapping up whatever heavenly or hellish magic he can and trying to form it into a miracle or a curse. _He won’t come. He won’t come. He’ll stay away—_

His front door opens. 

_No,_ Crowley thinks. 

Footsteps move urgently through the foyer and toward the hall.

 _No. No, no._ It would take a miracle to get Aziraphale out of here now. Crowley squeezes his eyes shut and prays, _please, God, no._

But God’s miracle workers are in the room, holding guns. His prayers fall flat. Aziraphale rounds the corner. 

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, no— _Crowley!_ ” 


End file.
